Beneath the Stars
by LylaMackenzie
Summary: Spot Conlon finds Racetrack sitting on the rooftop one evening, and the more time they spend together, the more he learns of Race's troubled past.
1. Chapter 1

The rooftop glistened with the recent fall of rain, the breeze scattering scraps of paper and leaves across the dampened blacktop. As the sun disappeared below the horizon, and the last of the colors faded from view, Racetrack Higgins closed his eyes and leaned against the wall, breathing in the scent of spring. There was a chill in the air as night replaced day, the remnants of winter sill hanging about. Blooms had started to appear here and there, but were now huddled in on themselves for the evening, determined to avoid the still cool temperatures. Racetrack felt himself starting to doze off, which seemed earlier and earlier these days, the effects of getting up before dawn taking hold.

"What are you doing up here Higgins?" A voice, cool and raspy, startled him from his slumber. Seeing Racetrack jump, the older boy laughed, his face wrought with amusement.

"What'd you do that for Conlon?" Racetrack spat. "Ain't nobody tell you howta not wake a guy up?"

"Sure, sure." Spot Conlon slid down the wall next to Racetrack. "Got a smoke?"

Racktrack reached into his pocket, producing a pack of cigarettes. He handed one to Spot and took another for himself, lighting both with the pack of matches he'd swiped from someone's pocket. Breathing in the cigarette seemed to settle him somewhat, his heart having sped up from Spot's unexpected appearance.

"Ain't this Jack's spot?" The blond boy asked, blowing smoke rings out into the night sky.

"Nah." Jack Kelley spent a lot of time on the rooftop, mostly alone or with Crutchie, dreaming of the day Santa Fe became more than just an idea.

"Why was you sleepin'?" Spot asked, eyeing Racetrack suspiciously. "It ain't barely quittin' time and you're snorin' like it's the middle of the night."

"I ain't either." Racetrack countered. "Just resting my eyes a bit."

"Yeah whatever you say." Spot told him. "Territory pay well today?"

"The usual." Race answered. They were silent a moment, the Race asked, "What're you doin' over here Spot? Ain't you afraid Brooklyn'll fall to rubble without you?"

"Nah, I got a couple of my guys looking out for me." Spot shrugged. He stubbed his cigarette out and tossed it onto the rooftop. He glanced at Racetrack who was staring out into the night. "What's up with you?"

"What?" Race asked, flicking his own cigarette to join Spot's. "Nothin'"

"Yeah, sure." Spot scoffed. He knew Race would never admit to anything so he didn't say any more about it. After awhile he noticed the goosebumps running down Racetrack's arms, the shiver that caused him to tremble ever so slightly, and the determination in him to hide it. "You cold Race?"

Racetrack crossed his arms, both out of defiance and in an effort to halt the shaking his body kept trying to display. "Course not."

Spot ignored him, taking off his own jacket and holding it out to his friend. "I don't want your jacket Spot." Race grumbled, though it did seem awfully inviting.

"Just take the damn jacket Racetrack." Spot ordered, but Racetrack shrugged him off, sitting forward momentarily in attempt to block the wind that was now whipping at his exposed skin. Spot rolled his eyes and draped the jacked over his friend's shoulders. "Don't you dare try and give that back. Not now that you got your Manhattan stink all over it."

Race smiled and curled the jacket around himself, savoring the warmth left by Spot's body heat. He leaned back against the wall once again, gazing at the stars that were now starting to appear. It was difficult to make them out against the street lights and buildings, but if you looked hard enough you could see the light winking back at you. Spot glanced at Race, a smile playing on his lips.

Spot was tough, known for his fierce leadership and commandeering attitude. No one messed with Spot Conlon, but that also made for a lack of true friends. Racetrack was one of a handful of guys he'd considered actual friends, not just suck-ups or leeches. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he cared a lot about Race, and knew they would do anything for one another. He couldn't say that about most of the guys he ran with. They'd fight beside him when necessary and they took orders without a fuss, but when shit got real, they'd bail. Race never did.

Lost in thought, Spot didn't realize Race had drifted back to sleep, laying his head on Spot's shoulder. Spot, being a night owl, stayed put, watching the moon glow in the night sky. Eventually he fell asleep too, his head tipping to the side, his cheek resting on the top of Race's head. The next time he woke, it was to the sound of screaming and it took him a moment to realize it was coming from Racetrack.


	2. Chapter 2

"Race! Race, wake up!" Spot shook Racetrack, who startled awake. Spot had a concerned look on his face and Race looked horrified. He bolted upright, his breathing heavy. He scrambled out of Spot's jacket, dropping it to the ground, then took off down the ladder. Spot stood on the rooftop, staring down at Racetrack, who was quickly descending the ladder. "Race!" He called after him. When Racetrack didn't respond, Spot muttered under his breath, "Dammit." He pulled on his jacket and took off down the ladder after his friend. When he reached the bottom, he saw Race sprinting down the street. "Race!" He yelled into the night. "Racetrack, c'mon!" Race ignored him, continuing to run down the street. He had no specific destination in mind, only to get away as fast as he could. Unfortunately Spot was faster and caught up to him after a few minutes. Putting a hand on Race's arm to stop him, Spot spoke, catching his breath, "They don't call you Racetrack cuz you're fast."

Race was bent at the waist, hands on his knees, but didn't say anything. "Why'd you run, man?" Spot asked him. "You start screaming outta nowhere then take off the second you open your eyes. You looked like youse seen a ghost."

Race shook his head. "Let's just forget about it." He started moving down the street again, walking this time. Spot caught his stride, eyeing him as they walked. "Nah, man, you're acting all weird. Something's going on with you."

"Ain't nothin' going on Conlon!" Racetrack shouted, stopping in his tracks to look Spot in the eyes. "Why don't you just go back to Brooklyn? They need you there." He finished quietly, resuming his walking.

'Look, I ain't playin' around, Race. You were scared. I saw it all over your face." The wind whipped at Spot's blond locks, sending them across his face. He didn't make a move to brush them off.

"I ain't scared of nuthin'" Race countered. It didn't have much effect, Race's shivering having resumed; sweat dotted his forehead, goosebumps reappeared on his skin.

Spot put his hands up in surrender. "Fine, fine." He slid his jacket off and once again held it out to Racetrack. "At least take this. Ain't no sense in freezing your ass off to prove a point."

Race shook his head. "Racetrack. Would you just go back to the Lodge? Go get some sleep or something."

"I'll catch ya later, Spot." Race turned back the way they had come, trudging his way back towards the Lodging House and the rooftop. Spot was right, it was more Jack's domain, but Race was beginning to feel more and more at home there. He wouldn't go back to the Lodge, at least not yet. He needed to clear his head. He left Spot Conlon standing in the middle of the road, jacket still in hand, and made his way to the racetrack.

The next morning he awoke on the rooftop, the sound of the whistle ringing in his ears and Spot's jacket draped over his body.


	3. Chapter 3

Racetrack jumped up and tore down the ladder to the Lodging House where he stuffed the jacket under the pillow in his bunk. The rest of the newsies were lazily walking around getting ready for the day. "Heya Racetrack, where'd you go off to last night?" Jack Kelley gave his arm a nudge, a playful grin on his face.

Race had to smile back, the snark just enough to brighten his mood a bit. "Track didn't pay too good last night so I parked it on a bench the rest of the evening."

"Ah, you'll make up for it today Race." Jack slung a towel around his neck and headed for the showers. "See ya at the line."

Racetrack joined the other boys getting ready and then headed off to grab his stack of papers for the day. It was a brisk morning and a part of him longed for the jacket that had appeared last night. He brushed it off, lighting a cigarette and heading to his usual spot. Not long after he arrived did he hear a familiar voice. "Heya Race. Sleep okay last night?"

Racetrack turned to see Spot Conlon standing behind him. "You'll get your jacket back Spot." He told him, scanning the area for potential buyers. He could already feel the tension rising, not sure if it was his annoyance at Spot or the happenings of the night before.

"I ain't worried about the jacket, Race." Spot told him, moving closer.

"Ain't you got yer own papes to sell?" Racetrack remarked, noticing Spot was without his satchel, not to mention in the wrong area. The wind blew, causing Race to grip more tightly to the paper in his hand. The headline was crap again, causing the boys to rely on their own embellishments to push papers. "READ ALL ABOUT IT! BABY BORN INSIDE OUT!" He shouted to the masses. What he said depended on who was walking by; at the moment a group of men were passing, two of them stopping to purchase a paper. Spot leaned in closer, trying to see what the paper said. 'Infant with protruding intestines needs surgery'.

"Turning a hernia into a horror scene. Nice touch." Spot grinned and adjusted the cap sitting on the crown of his head. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he rocked on his heels, eventually pulling a cigarette from a pack and putting it between his lips. He offered one to Race, but Race just shook his head. "And for the record, I told ya I got guys heading up my borough for the next few days. I gots some things to take care of around here. 'Sides it may be more fun to watch you sellin' papes."

"If you're here, you're helpin'" Racetrack told him, shoving a stack of papers into his chest. Spot smirked, but laughed, and the two of them spent the rest of the morning selling off all the papers. If it were anyone but Race, Spot would have told them off, but he didn't mind spending the morning with Racetrack, even if he was selling papers. And he'd pummel anyone who reminded him of that. Once they were finished, Race asked if Spot wanted to come back to the Lodging House to retrieve his jacket and together, they walked in that direction. The sky was now overcast, rain beginning to spit from the clouds, dampening their clothing. Wind beat at their bodies, whipping their clothing around and plastering it to their skin as they walked into it. It was a sure sign a storm was on the way and Race, for one, was glad to be going back to the Lodge.

Despite the impending storm, the Lodging House was empty, the rest of the boys still not having sold all their papers. No one wanted to eat the rest of the money and most of them having to sell alone they still had a good amount of papers left to go. The ones in groups most likely had double the amount of papes to sell, trying to make what they could to pay for rent and food. Newsies worked in all kinds of weather, so the fact that the Lodge was uninhabited wasn't unusual. Some of the younger ones may come in from time to time to warm up from the chill or dry off from the rain, but that could mean a loss and most suffered through it.

Spot followed Racetrack to his bunk and watched as Race pulled the jacket from underneath the pillow. Having put it there to keep sneaky hands from making it their own, he was thankful it was still in its hiding place. He handed it to Spot, who gratefully put it on, the turn in weather sending a chill through the Lodging House. Racetrack rubbed his arms, but quickly stopped, not wanting Spot to offer up his jacket again. He thought about the previous night, Spot having left him the jacket, and wondered what Spot had done to keep warm. Race sat down on his bunk, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. The two boys were quiet for a moment, listening to the rain as it started coming down harder, thrumming on the roof, rapping on the windows. "Good thing we got here when we did." Race said.

Spot nodded and joined Race on the bottom bunk, the one he'd claimed as his. "It may storm all night. Hopefully the boys don't stay out too late. It's harder to sell in the rain and storms are nearly impossible." The Lodging House was a good central spot for most of the boys, but they would usually head into the nearest building if it got really bad, then head out again as it let up. No one wanted to miss a chance to make money.

Racetrack laid his head back on the single pillow at the head of the bed and closed his eyes. He hadn't exactly gotten much sleep the night before, despite what he had let Spot think. His eyes nearly burned with the effort of keeping them open and though Spot was blabbing on about something or other, found himself drifting off again. Maybe Spot's presence made it easier to fall asleep, he wasn't sure, but he was fast asleep soon enough.

Spot chuckled to himself when he realized Racetrack hadn't answered him, and shimmied down next to him on the bed, closing his own eyes. Spot wasn't one for naps, but the warmth of Race's body next to his and the sound of the rain gently pattering the roof, eventually lulled him to sleep too.

Not long after, Spot was awakened by an unusual sound (you couldn't be too careful in Brooklyn, even if you were Spot Conlon, so he was usually on high alert even while he was asleep). He blinked in the darkness a few times, the clouds still blocking out most of the sunlight, though the rain had slowed to a mild humming, and he imagined the newsies had ventured out into the streets once again. Next to him, Race struggled against the tangle of the blanket, his brow furrowed and damp with sweat, despite the still chilly air. Did the kid ever get any real rest? Spot wondered, brushing the hair from Race's forehead. Racetrack whimpered under his touch, making Spot pull back. What was going on in his head? Spot grew concerned as Racetrack writhed next to him, his face set in a grimace. Spot reached out again, this time placing his hand gently on top of Race's head, not wanting to scare him. Race mumbled something under his breath and Spot leaned in, trying to hear him better. "Please."

"Please what Race?" Spot asked quietly, reaching for Race's hand, only to have him flinch away again. Spot desperately wanted to wake the sleeping Italian, but he wasn't sure Racetrack would actually tell him what had been concerning him the past few days if he were awake, so he let him suffer under the haze of sleep.

"Please." Race trembled as Spot scooted closer, wanting to provide some comfort, but not wanting to scare his friend. "Please."

Surely Race wasn't talking about him. Something was wrong and Spot didn't like the odds. Someone was hurting Race, or had been, and it was bad enough it was venturing into his dreams. Racetrack was tough, one of the toughest out there, and for him to be this vulnerable and afraid, had the Brooklyn leader worried.

Thunder rumbled overhead, sending Racetrack into a panic. He bolted upright, his breathing heavy, sweat making his t-shirt cling to his chest. For a moment he didn't notice Spot and the older boy sat looking at him with wide eyes. "Anthony," Spot ventured, using Racetrack's given name. Race sucked in a breath and backed away from Spot, nearly falling off the bunk as he did so. Spot grabbed a fistful of Race's shirt pulling him back onto the narrow mattress and into his arms. At first Race fought him, pushing against Spot's chest, half in his dream, half in reality, and Spot held him tightly. Eventually he gave up, collapsing against the blond haired boy, his head falling against Spot's neck. The tears came quickly then, despite Race's attempts to hold them back. Spot kept an arm around Race's back, his other reaching up a hand to tangle in Race's hair. Race sobbed into Spot's shoulder, dampening his shirt, finding himself embarrassed, yet unable to stop. Spot felt his chest tighten with the pain that ripped through the smaller boy's body. "Whatever happened, Anthony, we're going to fix it. I promise." His voice was muffled as he brushed a kiss to Race's temple, his hand running gently through the boy's hair. Beneath the sympathy he felt for Race (having dealt with his own share of bullshit), he felt anger, a deep burning fury. No one messed with his friends, and when it came to family, there would be hell to pay. Racetrack was family, and as he sat there holding his brother, his protective instincts kicked in, sending his mind into overdrive. Whatever had happened, whatever had caused this crippling intensity pouring forth from the dark-haired boy, it would not go unpunished.


	4. Chapter 4

Racktrack woke with a start, the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. He looked at the clock on his nightstand: 2:37. It was the middle of the night, but nothing in his house was quiet. His heart kept time with each step of heavy boots on the floor. He sat up in his bed, waiting. He knew it was coming; the only mystery was when and how bad. He watched as the knob on his door began to turn, but then it stopped. Racetrack was confused. He heard the footsteps continue down the hallway, toward the larger of the two bedrooms. One voice spoke, softly, begging. "Please, just leave him alone, Michael. He's only a boy."

The low chuckle that came from the man's mouth was anything but friendly. "Well, then, we'll just have to make sure to turn him into a man." He started back towards Race's room, and Racetrack felt his heart thudding in his chest once again. He knew it would come to this; he should have been better, done better. "Please, just leave him—"

"Enough, Louisa!" The man barked. "He knows his place and he messed up. How's he going to learn unless he's taught a lesson? This has happened too many times and I won't have it happen again!" Racetrack could hear the woman's quiet cries and a shallow thump as she slid down the wall to the floor. Race continued to stare at the door, trying to control his breathing. It was useless he knew, and after what he'd done he was surprised he could sleep at all.

The door opened with a sickening creak, and the tall, dark haired man stepped through it. "Anthony." He growled. "I think we've been over this enough, don't you?"

Racetrack could do nothing but nod, the fear inside him growing. He knew he'd messed things up, created more problems by getting caught, and cost his family a lot of money. And it was clear that this time his father wasn't going to take it; he was angry and it radiated from every pore in his skin, hung in the air like an unwelcome visitor, and wrapped itself around Race's throat, choking him.

"I'm sorry Pop." Racetrack tried to make eye contact with his father, but the look in his eyes was too menacing and the boy looked away. "I'm sorry." It was a worthless few words, but they were all Race had, all he could think of; no wonder his father thought the worst of him.

"You're ten now. You should be out there with me, beside me. But instead I give you one small job to do, thinking because you're a child it would be easy for you. But you messed up, Anthony. Cost me a lot of money." His voice rose as he spoke, recalling the past night's events. Racetrack remembered what had happened. He was supposed to take a package from one man and deliver it to another. It didn't have any markings, no way to trace it. But along the way, Race had tripped up, managed to drop it somewhere. He wasn't careful enough. He tried to pickpocket, knowing he would have to make up for the money the package was costing his father, but he was so nervous after losing the package, that he managed to get caught. His father had to pick him up at the police station, then head back out to settle things with the men he was dealing with. Too much of an ordeal, too much trouble, too little money. And it was Race's fault.

"Turn over, Anthony. Ten licks, one for every year you've made me sorry you're my son." He sneered. Racetrack felt the tears prick his eyes, but kept his head down, not wanting to look even weaker than he already did. He turned his back to his father, as ordered, and after hearing the belt come loose, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The first lash stung, but he could take it. The second was harder, biting his skin, and he could feel the blood trickle down his back. Putting a shirt on tomorrow would hurt, but he would have to, to cover the results of his mistake, one that never should have been made. As his father continued, he gritted his teeth, aware that with each whip of the belt, his father was taking out years of pent up anger at Racetrack. He wasn't good enough, fast enough, strong enough.

When his father was finished, he stood breathing heavily, staring down at Race, who was shaking but trying not to. "I hope you understand how we do business around here." He said seriously. His anger was gone now, replaced by a more subtle authority.

"Yes, sir." Racetrack breathed.

"We have another job in a few days. I expect you to be ready."

"Yes, sir." His father left then, closing the door behind him. He could hear his mother's soft cries muffle as his father drew close, most likely putting his arms around her. As much as he wanted to show Racetrack who was boss, he didn't necessarily want his wife to cry. Racetrack curled into a ball, lying on his left side, and sobbed into his pillow. Not so much for what just happened, but for the words his father spoke. He knew his father meant them, knew he was nothing more than a business deal.

One thing was true: from that night on Racetrack was the best pickpocket in Manhattan. He hadn't been caught since. And once he turned twelve, he decided to leave the 'family business' and ran from his home, not having been back since. His father, and maybe even his mother, had shown no sign of looking for him, and eventually he found the Newsies, where he got a new name (Racetrack) and left the past exactly where it belonged: in the past.


	5. Chapter 5

Racetrack found himself in Spot's arms, the dream having stayed with him long after he awoke. He was sobbing, embarrassed, but unable to control it. He clutched at Spot, trying to bury his emotions in Spot's shirt. It felt so real, but he'd never shared that part of his world with the rest of his buddies, and he wasn't sure he was ready to now. So he clung to his friend, tears eventually subsiding, as he heard Spot's promise to him. "Whatever happened, Anthony, we're going to fix it. I promise." He found some comfort in this; Spot always made good on his promises. As they pulled apart, Spot tried to meet his eyes, but Race looked away. "Hey." Spot cupped Race's chin, turning Race's face to his own. "It's okay. I won't say anything." But that's not what was bothering Racetrack. It was the simple fact that it happened, that Spot was there to witness it, and that it was becoming more and more frequent. It was the reason he'd taken to sleeping on the roof. Luckily Jack didn't say anything. Racetrack supposed Jack had an idea as to what was going on, but was nice (or something) enough not to mention something.

"I know." He told Spot. "Thanks." He shook himself all the way awake and dragged a hand over his face, trying to erase the tightness that came with prolonged crying. His hair had come out of its usual sleek mold, and he climbed out of bed, reaching into his back pocket for the comb he kept there in case his hair decided to turn on him. He ran it through his thick, dark locks, smoothing them back into place. "I'll see ya later Spot." Racetrack finished with the comb and stuck it back into his pocket as he headed out the door.

Spot stayed where he was for a moment, taking in everything that had just happened. Was someone hurting Racetrack? Surely Race could take care of himself. The Delancey's wouldn't mess with Race without someone putting their heads through a wall and they were both still standing. And there were no bruises that Spot noticed, and most guys were going to aim for the face. Race was a good fighter though; the only times he really had trouble were when he owed money, which wasn't often. Did something happen at the track? Did someone jump him one night after losing to him? Spot couldn't make up his mind and over thinking it wasn't going to do him any good.

He grabbed his jacket and headed out the same door Race had gone through moments before. He squinted in the sunlight, his eyes adjusting as he got used to the brightness of the sun, the storm having completely passed, allowing for a few white, fluffy clouds to drift in the sky. He looked ahead of him, towards Brooklyn, and noticed the darker clouds had gathered in that direction. Great, he thought, more rain.

As he walked, he passed Newsies still out selling papers, nodded to a few, ignored the rest. Spot wasn't in the mood for conversation today, his mind on only one thing. He wasn't going to allow something to happen to Racetrack and there was no way Race was going to tell him what was going on, despite them being as close as they were. There were some things you just didn't want to talk about, Spot understood that, but at the same time he had a feeling that whatever was going on had done something to Race. He walked quickly, with purpose, letting those around him know important matters were at hand. And Spot being Spot, no one was going to question him. As the bridge neared, Spot let a small smile creep onto his face; as soon as he reached Brooklyn his plan would be put into action.


	6. Chapter 6

Race didn't know what to think at this point; he just let his feet carry him where they may. Of course he ended up at the track. He didn't bet anything, just stood watching the horses run through their starting gates and make their way around the dirt track. He was used to putting money on the horses so he ended up picking one in his head anyway. He lost. Go figure, that's the way his life was heading at the moment. He tried not to think of the dreams that were bleeding into his every thought, ones he had thought he'd stomped down long ago. Only over the past few months had they grown more present. Sleeping on the roof had kept him from waking the others, kept their questions at bay (he knew there would be questions). But how long could he keep this up? Spot had watched him have two different nightmares, screaming out in his sleep, and sobbing, bawling his eyes out, in Spot's arms. And Spot wasn't one to just let things go. He would figure it out sooner or later.

Race nodded to a few of the guys he typically ran into at these things, no one asking or even caring that he was a bit young to be making bets on horses, or any other type of gambling that came his way. He found himself checking out the track more thoroughly, really looking at the it, watching the dirt fly up behind the horses, their hooves making thudding sounds as they were pushed faster and faster by their riders. Race stayed at the track for the rest of the evening, wandering the betting lines, catching glimpses of who was betting on which horse, studying the way the men lit their cigars so casually, lazily blowing smoke into the air, sending it to the ceiling to circle the rafters. There always seemed to be a haze of smoke at the track, a thick fog that became part of racing itself, and Race found himself craving one himself. He thought about swiping one from one of the men, but it was only a passing thought, he knew he wasn't in the right mindset to be stealing anything. Stealing. Something he'd never forget how to do, could thank his old man for, blame him even, for the burden it left him with. He sighed, placing his hat back on his head, having taken it off to wipe the sweat from his brow. And with that, he headed towards home.

Spot stepped into Brooklyn, making a bee line for his right hands, and giving them instructions, before heading to the dock, where he threw his legs over the edge, fingering the rock he had picked up along the way. All there was to do now was wait. Spot reached into his back pocket for the slingshot he kept in his bunk, which no one dared touch, and aimed the rock far into the water in front of him. It shot into the water with a plop, sinking to the bottom. Spot felt the breeze in the air and was glad he was wearing his jacket, which still smelled of Racetrack. Spot didn't want to let himself worry about his friend, instead choosing to sit and wait for the sunset and the news that was sure to come to him before too long.

As Race made his way back to the lodge, he felt as if he were being watched. He didn't see anyone, didn't hear any footsteps, any breathing that would typically give someone away. Figuring he was being paranoid, he kept walking, the night air making him shiver, once again finding himself wishing for Spot's jacket. It wasn't that Race didn't have his own, but it somehow didn't offer the same warmth his friend's did. He quickened his pace some as he approached the lodge, sure most of the boys were already asleep, having to wake before the dawn the next day. As he stepped up to the door, a gravelly voice spoke his name and made him stop in his tracks, his breath catch in his throat. He swallowed hard as the shadow behind him crept closer. Still, he didn't turn, didn't want to see it with his own eyes. He opened his mouth to speak and it felt like sandpaper, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, yet he managed one word. "Dad."


	7. Chapter 7

Spot sat watching the sun tuck below the horizon, his feet swinging listlessly at the end of the dock. He fiddled with the slingshot, turning it over and over in his hands, his mind trying and failing to think of anything other than Racetrack. His jacket wrapped around him, staving off the chill in the air, he wondered how his friend was doing, and hoped his boys would be back with news soon. Spot knew he couldn't keep an eye on Race by himself, Racetrack not wanting to open up to him, and figured sending his eyes and ears to gather information was his best bet on obtaining the source of Race's undeniable pain.

Spot had had his share of life experiences, his own father having split when he was young, his mother losing her life to some illness or another, leaving Spot and his siblings to care for themselves. He hadn't heard from his older brother and sister for a few years after they left to create their own lives, off getting married and having children of their own. He suspected they had heard of him, Spot that is, though didn't make a connection, or didn't care. At this point he could pass either one of them in the street and wouldn't be able to distinguish them from any other passersby. His brother was seven years older than him, his sister two years older than that. Spot hadn't exactly been planned for and his birth stretched money further than could be provided for, especially after his father left. Spot had found a place with the Brooklyn Newsies when he was just nine years old, quickly moving up the ranks and bringing home anything he could to supply his mother with which to help with the bills and other necessities. When he lost her two years later, he moved into the lodging house permanently, his brother and sister going their own directions. Before their mother passed, his brother Patrick found work with a shoe company, making decent money, which he also used for the family. His sister Nora stayed home with their mother, cooking and cleaning, sewing anything that needed repair, letting out hems to provide a few more months of wear. But after their mother died; neither one felt the need to stick around, and at only eleven years of age, Spot found himself on the mean streets of Brooklyn, alone.

He didn't expect anyone to take care of him and no one offered. So he found ways to help himself, and by the age of twelve, he'd become the infamous Spot Conlon, fearless leader of the Brooklyn borough. No one messed with Spot, no one asked him how he came to be, and his past faded into nothingness. It didn't define him and he didn't think about it. He didn't get where he was by feeling sorry for himself and taking handouts. With no one to question him, Spot let the dark memories of his past go and focused on what was important. And right at this moment it was Racetrack.

He found himself scanning the area for the three boys he sent to Manhattan, and saw nothing. Spot found himself getting nervous, a feeling he despised. He certainly didn't show anything but a cool demeanor on the outside. He felt the exhaustion of the day beginning to seep into his body and he pulled the cap from his head to brush his hair back; he had a habit of combing his fingers through the blond locks when he was anxious or frustrated.

The rest of the Brooklyn Newsies knew better than to bother Spot while he was awaiting news, and he was left alone on the dock, the breeze blowing the chilly water onto his skin now and then. He sometimes enjoyed the company, though wouldn't let anyone else know that. He often found himself enjoying the feeling of Race's body next to his own, just as when he was young and he and his brother shared a bed. He found some form of comfort knowing he wasn't alone, that someone else was there with him. He and his brother weren't exactly close as kids, Patrick being so much older than Spot, but he found himself missing the closeness, something he now felt with Race, though he'd deny it to anyone to said anything.

As he contemplated making his way back to Manhattan, the saw the hustling walk of two of the boys he sent to watch over Racetrack heading towards him. He stood, watching them approach, keeping himself in check while trying to read their faces. A boy of about twelve, Hawkeye, who was known for his keen eyesight and ability to stay hidden when needed, stepped up to Spot, his breath ragged as he spoke. "Spot, we found Racetrack." He seemed nervous as he spoke, as if afraid to slip up, say the wrong thing. "He might be in trouble."

"What do you mean?" Spot asked, feeling the heat beginning to make its way into his body, the edgy anger forcing its way through the worry.

"His dad showed up." Hawkeye's companion spoke. Spot could never remember the boy's name. But that didn't matter now. "Race didn't look too happy to see him. But he went somewhere with him. Link has them in his sights."

"Link said to meet him over in Manhattan and he'd show you himself." Hawkeye spoke again. "But, Spot, Race looked scared. I ain't never seen him look scared before. Something's going down and it ain't good."


	8. Chapter 8

Racetrack felt his body stiffen, the fear from years prior sneaking up on him once again. He couldn't make himself turn around, the voice he had just heard making it difficult to swallow, much less move. But he didn't have to worry about that; his father took his arm and guided him away from the Lodge. "I think we need to talk."

For the first time in nearly six years, Racetrack found himself walking next to his father, trying to keep the anxious feeling from overtaking his body. Sweat dripped down between his shoulder blades, making him itch, and he was sure his father could smell the fear coming off of him like smoke from a fire. He was seventeen now, way too old to be afraid of his father, and he should be able to stand up to him, should be able to say what he'd wanted to say since he was young, but his throat wouldn't allow him to form words.

They walked until they reached a secluded spot, and his father shoved him through the front door of a house that had been abandoned, and looked as if it could collapse at any moment. The house was standing at the end of a street that looked as if it hadn't seen much activity in years. The setting sun gave it the appearance of being haunted, but Race knew the only thing haunting this house was his father. He dreaded the thought that if his father killed him, no one would know, no one would hear anything, and maybe no one would even care. Would the guys care? Would Spot? Race thought about Spot, how his friend had held him as he cried, as he emptied his body of all the things life had done to him. If his father knew about that, he'd kill him for sure, and use his body as an example of pure weakness.

After all this time, he couldn't imagine why his father would want to see him, what use he could be to that man, since that would be the only real reason the superior Mr. Higgins would allow his presence to darken the doorstep of the Lodge would be to make his son a pawn in some scheme of his. His father didn't speak, just eyed him, looking him up and down, as if to gauge how useful he might actually be; after all he was only twelve the last time the elder man had seen him and surely looked different, bigger. Race was determined to meet the man's eye, show him he was older, wiser, and much more likely to do some damage in a fight if he had to. "I've been watching you, Anthony." His father said finally. "Or should I say, Racetrack." His new name sounded strange in his father's mouth, wrong somehow, and Race didn't like how this man from his past was crossing over into his present. "So you sell papers now? Make an honest living?" Racetrack didn't say anything and tried not to clench his fists as his father circled him. "It certainly suits you better than your previous aspirations." Mr. Higgins came to a stop in front of his son, looking straight at him, one set of eyes boring into the other. It was a challenge.

Racetrack took a step towards his father. "Why are you here?" He asked, every nerve riveted, he felt a tense electricity within him.

His father snickered. "Anthony." He began, "You're my son, of course I know where you're hiding out. And I felt like I should stop by, say hi."

"I ain't hiding from anything." Racetrack didn't know if he was pushing it, and it made him nervous. But he figured either way his dad was going to pummel him, may as well talk while he could. Only problem was, he didn't know who else might be around, listening. "I just moved on is all."

"You know, Anthony, I worked so hard to get where I am and you could have been a part of it." The elder man explained, "But you chose something easy, pathetic. Working on the streets, selling papers. I thought I'd be kind, offer you a second chance." Racetrack didn't want to work with his father, he didn't want any part of this, and the fear returned, as if he were just now remembering who he was talking to. He backed away, dust from the floor kicking up as he went. His father followed, Race backing up until his back hit a wall, making him jump. His father laughed. "Still a skittish little boy aren't you. This is just like old times, me and you." He slammed a fist against the wall, making Race jump once again. His father sighed. "Maybe I should make you understand that you have my blood in your veins." He drew back a fist, a sharp sneer gleaming on his face. Race shut his eyes, flashes of the past echoing within his head.

A ping sounded through the otherwise quiet atmosphere. Mr. Higgins turned, losing his train of thought, double checking his surroundings, just in case he had to fight. When nothing came of it, he turned is attention back towards Racetrack. "Sorry for the delay." He reared back once again, but before he could bring his fist forward, he felt himself being tackled to the ground with a grunt.

"If I were you, I'd leave him alone." A voice spat, pure venom oozing from the sound. Racetrack slid down the wall, trying to melt into the darkness. His heart was racing, pounding within his chest. He heard the voice again. "This ain't your turf far as I can see."

"Your bodyguard?" The elder Higgins chuckled. The blond haired boy gritted his teeth, keeping himself in check. He nodded his head and two boys walked out of the shadows, pinning the man's arms above his head. Anger etched on his face, the leader shoved his arm into the man's throat, cutting off his air. "How's it feel to be man handled you bastard? You feel like coming round here again, I'll be here." He stared into the man's eyes. "I ain't afraid of you. And I am way more powerful than you'll ever be." The older man's face was turning red, but he didn't struggle. The boy shoved his arm deeper into the man's throat once more before signaling the others to let go, and releasing Mr. Higgins. Race's father coughed a few times and got to his feet.

The dark haired man grinned. "I'd say this ain't over, but I got better things to do." He looked at Racetrack, who hadn't moved from his position on the floor. "I gave you a chance, Anthony. You're on your own now. You're no longer my son, not that you were much of one to begin with. But you just remember; I don't forget anything." And off he strode back through the door of the house and into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

Spot stared at the space now empty doorway, the ghost of the older man still present within the house. He spat in that direction then turned his attention to where Racetrack was huddled in on himself, his back pressed to the wall. His breath was coming in strangled gasps, his body shaking with the effort and Spot realized Race was crying. Spot nodded to his boys, who promptly left the two of them alone. Spot crept cautiously towards Race, his brow furrowed, worry settling within him. Something was clearly wrong here, and Spot wondered just what kind of hold Race's father had on him, and if it had anything to do with the past few days. "Hey." He spoke softly, reaching a hand out, trying to gauge Race's reaction. Racetrack shrank back at the sight of someone coming towards him, making him look like a small child, scared of the monsters under his bed. "Race, it's Spot. I'm going to walk over to you okay?"

"Spot?" Race looked at his friend, as if noticing him for the first time. Spot nodded, settling himself on the dusty floor next to his friend. Race's face was streaked with tears, his eyes spilling over once more. Spot reached out a hand and brushed a thumb over Race's cheek. "Race, what was this all about? What just happened here?"

"It's nothin'" Race insisted, brushing a hand across his face, trying to keep his voice steady, his shaking body betraying him. "Thanks for what you did, though." Race quickly got to his feet, sniffling back the rest of the tears that threatened to spill. "I should get back to the lodge. You should probably get goin' yourself, you know. It's far to Brooklyn from here."

"Race!" Spot jumped up from where he was seated, anger festering inside him. He didn't come all this way for Racetrack to walk out on him once again. He knew something was up and wasn't leaving without answers. "We're gonna talk about this!"

"There's nothing to talk about Spot, alright!" Race spat back. "It's over. Let's just go—"

"Are you kiddin' me with this shit? I walk in on your father trying to beat the shit out of you and taking some kind of sick pleasure in watching you collapse in on yourself and you tell me it's nothing, no big deal? I don't think so, Race. Not this time. It ain't good enough this time." Spot felt himself getting closer to Race, nearly in his face, his anger getting the better of him. After what he just witnessed he should probably back off, but he couldn't help it. His best friend looked terrified, scared out of his mind, and he couldn't take it anymore. "The past few days, I find you waking up screaming like somebody set you on fire, you're having nightmares or—or—or visions, I dunno, but whatever it is is slowly eating at you, consuming you. I ain't gonna let this go this time Racetrack. You ain't running away from this no more."

"Fine!" Race screamed, spit flying from his mouth. "You wanna know? You wanna hash out my past? Well, fine, Brooklyn, here it is." Race yanked the t-shirt he was wearing over his head and tossed it aside. "Is this what you wanted to see? Is this what you wanted?" He turned around so Spot could get a good look at his back, before spinning around again and getting closer to the blond boy. "Here you have it in spades. My old man used to take a belt to me any time I wasted his time and energy. It happened more times than I can count and I sure as hell didn't ask for it. I could never do anything right. I would have scars that hadn't healed yet and he'd start all over again. I'd go to school with bruises and blood dripping down my back, pretending everything was great, when in reality it hurt to stand, to bend down and get my books, to breathe too deeply." Racetrack slapped a hand to his chest. "I bolted when I was twelve because I was sure at some point, he would stop caring how far he took it, and I wasn't sure how much more my body could handle." Race's voice hitched, he was nearly sobbing now, the memories like fresh wounds, biting him all over again. "So there you have it. You gonna go make me front page news?"

S

pot stood in front of Racetrack, a look of pure horror and pain on his face. Without a word, Spot took the last couple of steps between them and gathered the scared, angry boy in his arms, feeling Race's tears soaking his own shirt, the years of torment coming to the surface and leaking out all over Spot. Spot held Race as gently, yet as tight as he could. He could feel the scars from Race's back under his fingertips; how had he never noticed them before? They felt like a map, one line beginning before another had even ended, overlapping, crisscrossing, intersecting, too many to begin to count. Spot felt tears in his own eyes, hot and bitter. He held onto Racetrack even tighter, feeling Race burrowing into his shoulder, fisting his shirt in an attempt to cling onto something tangible, something safe. Spot reached a hand up to tangle in Race's hair. "I've got you, Race." Spot breathed. "I've got you. And I don't plan on letting go any time soon."


	10. Chapter 10

The world seemed to shatter all around him, and then Spot showed up and picked up the pieces. All the hurt and fear and anger that was always swimming around inside of him seemed to be pulled to the surface and Racetrack knew that he was relying on Spot to hold him up; if Spot let go Race was positive he'd collapse and he wasn't sure he was strong enough to pick himself back up again. The night had started out as nothing more than a rough patch, and ended up as a slide show of his past.

As Spot held him, he could feel some of the tension beginning to leave his body, as if all the horrors were leaking out with every tear that fell. He felt Spot's hands trace his scars, his body stiffening. He'd never let anyone see the scars his father had left him with and he knew he should feel embarrassed, ashamed of his weakness, but all he felt was relief. Spot's fingers tangled in Race's hair, his arm tightening around the younger boy's back. As the pounding of his heart slowed and the tears lessened, Racetrack lifted his head from Spot's shoulder, refusing to look the bond boy in the eye. "Spot." He said, his voice barely a whisper. Spot lifted Race's chin and gently wiped his face with the hem of his own shirt, trying to get his friend to meet his eye.

Race sniffled and Spot placed a hand on Race's cheek, brushing a thumb over the tear tracks left behind. "Aw, Race, why didn't you tell me?" Spot had been through plenty of shit, but nothing compared to the torment Race seemed to have faced. In a way, it hurt that Race felt he couldn't share it with Spot, but he understood the power of fear, even if he'd never show anyone he was anything but tough as nails. Race pulled away completely, shrugging and turning away from Spot. "I couldn't."

Spot stepped closer to Racetrack, cautiously letting a hand fall to Race's shoulder. Race closed his eyes, not sure what to do with all the gentle contact; he was used to the harshness, not the soft caress of another person, and though Spot and he had been friends for a very long time, Race had never known Spot to be the most sensitive of people.

The light from the streetlamps illuminated Race's back through the windows in the darkened house, and for the first time, Spot was able to see every line; very little skin was spared and it broke Spot's heart. "Shit." He murmured, turning Race around so that he was once again facing him. "I'm sorry Race." was all he could think of to say.

"It doesn't matter anymore." Race turned and went to pick up his discarded shirt.

"Doesn't matter?" Spot questioned, "Race, he came here and found you. It's hardly in the past." When Race didn't respond, Spot continued, taking off his cap and brushing a hand through his sandy blond hair. "You've been having his nightmares for awhile haven't you? That's why you've been sleeping on the roof? Why you've been so tired lately?"

"You know that already." Race pulled the shirt over his head.

Spot let out a breath of air, a terrifying thought coming to mind. "You knew he was here didn't you?" He took a step towards Racetrack. Race stopped with his arm midway through one of the sleeves. "That's why you've been so jumpy and upset, why you've been having all the dreams in the first place."

Racetrack put his shirt on the rest of the way, nodding. "I had a feeling, but I wasn't completely sure until he came to the Lodging House."

"You should have said something Racetrack." Spot told him, placing the cap back on his head. "I know plenty of guys willing to soak that bastard."

"Trust me, so does he." Race explained. "Plus, I ain't weak, Spot, despite my current state."

"Hell, Race, if anybody knows that, it's me." Spot gave Race a small smile. "You're one of the toughest guys I know. We don't exactly take anyone over in Brooklyn."

Racetrack smiled back. "Yeah." He sighed. "Look, Spot, I'd really appreciate if you didn't shout this from the rooftops if you know what I mean."

"I ain't never ratted on you before." Spot reminded him. When Race shook his head in acknowledgement, Spot reached over and put an arm across Race's shoulders. "But between you and me, if I ever see that sorry excuse for a human again, he's done for."

Racetrack smiled again, loving the feeling of being protected. "I should probably get back to the Lodge so Jack doesn't think I lost all my money at the track again."

"You want me to come with ya?" Spot asked, catching Race's eye. "We can stay on the roof again if Kelley hasn't claimed it back for himself."

"I think you've done plenty in my honor tonight Spot." Race commented, once again feeling both grateful and embarrassed. After what had just happened, he really wasn't ready to spend the night alone. He didn't know if what his father said was true, that he was through with him. For all he knew the man could be waiting around the corner to finish him off. As Spot slid his arm from Race's shoulders, Race spoke again. "But you know, it is kinda getting late and it's a long way back to Brooklyn. I'd really hate to be the reason your body is found at the bottom of the East River."

Spot chuckled and the two of them walked out into the night, stars masked by the streetlamps and buildings jutting into the sky. It reminded Race of what Jack was always talking about; going to Santa Fe. He wondered if there was a place like that, a place that he could go to and not feel like he had to look over his shoulder all the time, scrounge around for money. Racetrack wasn't the only one with a past, he knew that, and though him hanging around with Spot Conlon wasn't that unusual, he didn't want to go around advertising his suffering. Still, the thought of having Spot by his side gave him comfort. If he had to have a shitty past, he was glad Spot was the one who knew. As the two of them walked back to the Manhattan Lodging House, Race felt Spot take his hand. Nothing was said between them, and they would probably never acknowledge it, but for that moment in time, Racetrack Higgins felt safe.


	11. Chapter 11

Once on the roof of the Manhattan Lodging House, the two boys sat down against the brick of the building, looking out at the night sky. "How long were you dealing with all that?" Spot asked eventually, turning to look at Race, who still stared straight ahead.

"Until I was twelve. But I guess I had to deal with it since I can remember. I was probably four or five when he started in on me." Race told him, memories haunting him to this day.

"Since you were four?" Spot asked, taking Race's hand once more. "Even I wouldn't soak a little kid."

"Yeah, well, my dad isn't exactly someone who plays by the rules." Racetrack told him. "I was just some little piece of shit that got in his way."

"What about your ma? She didn't do anything about it?" Spot asked, fingering a pebble he'd picked up on the way back to the lodging house.

Racetrack shrugged, sniffing. "It's not like she could do anything. She had no control. She was probably under his thumb just as much as I was."

"Did he beat her too?" Spot watched Race carefully, watching as Race picked at a string that had come loose on his shirt.

"No." He began. "I don't think so anyway. I was always there. It's not like he needed to take anything out on her when he had me."

"Well it's bullshit she didn't try and do anything about it."

"I don't know what she could have done. I know part of her hated him for it, I remember hearing them argue about it, but they were married. What was she supposed to do?"

"Yeah. I guess." Spot tossed the small rock, watching as it pinged against a metal pipe jutting out of the roof. The sound made Race jump and Spot apologized, feeling the younger boy tense beside him.

"I'm wiped." Race noted, leaning his head against the wall behind them. "We should probably get some sleep while we can. Gotta get up in a few hours. Carry the banner and all that."

Spot chuckled. "Still gotta work, huh."

"Gotta pay for my place here. And food." Race said, his eyes heavy with the weight of the evening. "I haven't eaten in forever it seems like. I could use some grub."

"Yeah me too. We'll stop by Jacobi's in the morning." Spot assured him. "Get some rest Race."

But Racetrack was already asleep, his body slumped against Spot's.

Racetrack slept dreamlessly, his breathing steady. For the first time in a long time, when the bell rang and the boys headed off to Newsies Square, Race felt refreshed and relaxed. Spot had left sometime in the night, leaving a note behind. 'Had some things to take care of.'

Race made his way to Jacobi's once he picked up his papers for the day. He was able to get a sandwich and a glass of water, and realized how famished he'd been only after he'd begun eating. But he felt better than he had in days, ready to take on the morning, hopeful in his paper selling.

Heading off to his usual spot, near the track (those suckers were still half drunk and he pushed a lot of papes that way) he sold off a few, shouting a headline of a fire in a prominent man's home, surprisingly one that wasn't made up. He figured he could sell them off fairly quickly, maybe grab some more food and hopefully check up on Spot. It wasn't unusual that he took off, but Racetrack couldn't help but wonder what he was up to, especially with everything that went down the night before. Race wouldn't be surprised if Spot tracked his father down and put him in the ground. It made Racetrack's stomach clench, the thought of his best friend getting messed up in all of that. It was his fight, one that he'd lost too many times, and who knows what would have happened if Spot hadn't shown up. Race was slightly embarrassed by the thought, everyone knew how tough Racetrack was, and he was worried his vulnerability would show through. He knew Spot wouldn't rat on him and his lackeys wouldn't dare cross either one of them, but he couldn't help the anxiety creeping in on him as he leaned against a post along the outside of the track. The morning was crisp and he pulled his cap down a bit. His arm was still sore from where his father had grabbed him the day before, and he was sure there would be a handprint shaped bruise if he ventured a look. It brought memories swirling back and he found himself looking over his shoulder, awaiting another blow from the old man. Racetrack shook the feeling from his body as a few men wandered in his direction. He sold three papers, two of which were to a couple of drunks on their way to or from the track. It didn't open until lunchtime, but vagabonds tended to hang around, betting before the day had even begun. Racetrack liked to take advantage of that and smiled slightly as an old thought popped into his head. 'At least my father was good for something, taking advantage of anyone who crossed his path. And this time it worked in my favor'.

A flash of memory invaded his thoughts and he felt himself become dizzy, nearly toppling over. He shook his head, wondering why he was still standing and looked up to see a slightly smirking Spot Conlon keeping him on his feet. Once he made sure Racetrack was steady, Spot leaned against the post Race was now using to prop himself up. "Hiya Spot." Racetrack offered.

"You're lucky I got here when I did, else you'd be lyin on the ground with all your papes missin'". Spot noted. Race offered a slight smile. "Somehow I'm always savin' your rear end." Race knew Spot was joking, trying to lighten the mood, but it didn't mean it wasn't the truth. For the past few weeks, Race's nightmares left him vulnerable, open to getting his ass kicked when he was least expecting it. Spot had always watched out for Race, like a big brother, even from a distance. It wasn't something Spot shared with Race; Race didn't exactly know, nor would he like, that Spot had a couple of his guys keeping an eye out from time to time. But it made Spot feel better. He knew Racetrack was as tough as they came, but that wasn't always how it had been. At least not from what Spot could remember. When they first met, Race hid his past from Spot, but that didn't mean Spot couldn't tell something awful had been brought to Brooklyn along with a rough-looking kid. He didn't ask and Race didn't offer. But it was there, and it clearly wasn't just a ghost that was haunting him, it was pure flesh and blood. And it came in the form of his father. But that wasn't going to be a problem anymore, Spot made sure of that.


	12. Chapter 12

Leaves blew around his feet, the air scented with the burning campfire smell of autumn; only around here they used empty barrels and trash cans, trying to keep warm. Winter was on its way and everyone was trying to keep warm in any way possible. The young boy walked quickly along the streets, his arms wrapped around himself trying to keep the cool air from soaking through his thin shirts. His jacket wasn't much help, nearly threadbare and a size too small, but he pulled it tighter anyway. He was exhausted from his long walk, but afraid to stand still for too long. The fires were inviting, their heat radiating into the night sky, bodies huddled around them, and as his teeth began chattering, he found himself drawn to them, slinking slowly towards the outside of the circle. He was small, looked much younger than he was, and was welcomed easily. As his body warmed, he felt himself grow sleepy, and eventually he lowered his body to the cold ground, dragging a discarded blanket around his slight frame. One by one the people around him disbanded, having warmed their skin for the moment, and went in search of food and other things. He curled up as much as he could and shivered as the fire gradually burnt out.

The boy woke with a yell, tearing the blanket from his body, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead. He sat up, gasping for breath, turning this way and that, searching the area for the mysterious force that dragged him from sleep, finding nothing but a dark, cold alley. His breathing slowed, and he lay back again, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He didn't want to fall asleep, didn't want the nightmares to return, and he took a shaky breath, clenching the blanket in his fists, and felt hunger edge into his reality. He hadn't eaten in a while; hours? Days?

"It's probably not too wise to be out here on your own." The young boy gasped, his feet clawing at the pavement in order to sit up all the way, backing up against the wall. He looked in all directions but could see nothing in the inky blackness. He brushed dark, sweat-soaked locks from his forehead. Surely he hadn't been hearing things. "You could get yourself into a bit of trouble you know." That voice was mocking him, coming at him from all directions, encircling him like an invisible cloak. The voice crept closer, dropping directly in front of him, like a cat. He held out a hand to the boy, but the younger child could do nothing but stare, not wanting to trust this stranger. Then the older boy smiled, his mouth not unlike a smirk. He was close enough now that the frightened boy could smell him, a metallic-type odor that permeated the air. "Don't worry, I ain't the one you gotta worry about. Name's Spot."

The young boy peered at him with interest now, his fear easing a bit, and he reached out and took the older boy's hand. "Anthony Higgins."

The smile grew. "Welcome to Brooklyn, Anthony."

Spot led Anthony along a few streets, most abandoned in the night. It made Anthony wonder why Spot was out so late, and where his parents were. Anthony didn't like being afraid, didn't like how it made him feel, weak. And he wasn't weak, he was far from it. "What are you doing all the way out here?" Spot spoke after a long period of silence.

"I—I live here." Anthony managed

Spot gave him a sideways glance. "No. You don't. I know everyone in my borough and you ain't one of 'em."

"I just moved here."

"Uh huh. You always sleep in alleys?"

"What do you care anyway?" Anthony felt himself getting defensive. Who was this Spot guy and why was he asking all these questions?

"Look, kid." Spot stopped walking and Anthony stopped with him. Spot turned to face the shorter boy, nearly hovering over him. "I don't give my left shoe where you lay your head. But you ain't doin' it in my borough without some kind of explanation. I don't take kindly to rats."

" I ain't a rat." Anthony sighed. "Just getting' away, needed a change."

Spot eyed the boy up and down, his chin tilted in thought. "How old are you?"

Anthony thought about his for a minute. "16."

"You look eight. Ain't no way you're 16. I'm only 14."

Anthony looked at his feet. "I'm twelve."

"That sounds more like it."

"So this is Brooklyn." Anthony changed the subject. His hair fell into his eyes and he brushed it back.

"Best place to be." Spot said proudly. He didn't ask where Anthony was from and Anthony didn't offer. "You seem like an okay kid. Come with me and I'll show you where everyone actually sleeps."

Anthony walked with Spot to a squat, rundown looking building. "The Brooklyn Lodging House." He gestured grandly, as if he were showing off a mansion. "The great Newsboys sleep here."

"Newsboys? Like selling papers?"

"Yeah. You look like you could use a bed, maybe some food." Spot opened the door and the two of them stepped into a wide room, littered with bunk beds. Snores, rustling, and the occasional grunt echoed throughout the room. "There might be a couple beds open tonight." Spot flipped a coin at Anthony. "Should cover a bed and some food for the night."

Anthony thanked Spot and watched as the older boy disappeared into another room. When Spot didn't return, Anthony quietly weaved his way through the beds, searching for one that wasn't inhabited. There was a bunk in the corner, both beds unoccupied. Anthony sat carefully on the bottom bunk and sighed.

He looked around the darkened room, grateful for a place to sleep. It wasn't what you would call warm in the lodging house, but it was a welcome difference from the chill that seeped through his clothing on the streets. He unfolded the blanket that sat on the bed and lay back on the pillow, pulling the thin cloth over his body. He stared at the bottom of the bunk atop his own. In what seemed like seconds, his body gave in to the softness of the mattress, the safety of the building, and Anthony was fast asleep.

Anthony awakened trying to catch his breath. His sheet and blanket were drenched with sweat, his clothing sticking to his body despite the cold. He allowed himself a few moments to gather the information that he was in a lodging house in Brooklyn. He sat up and closed his eyes to steady himself, dizziness setting in the moment he moved. He swung his legs over the side of his bed, glancing around the now-sunlit room, the beds full of scrambled sheets and blankets, dust settled on the floor, motes dancing in the air from the light streaming in the windows. Other than the furniture, the room was empty. He stood, wondering where everyone had gone. Walking in between the beds again, he noticed names carved into the wood, claiming the bunks, though not really names, more like nicknames, like Spot. He hadn't really thought to question the tough older boy the night before about his name.

He came to the end of the room; the door to outside was to his left, another two doors directly in front of him. He opened the one on the right; a bathroom. After using the bathroom (an actual bathroom) he leaned on the sink, his hands gripping the sides of the basin. There was a small rectangular mirror on the wall in front of the sink and he looked at his reflection. His face was dirty, the black eye he had gotten a few days ago a rainbow of colors. His lip still looked slightly puffy, but it wasn't outstandingly noticeable. He turned on the faucet and splashed some water on his face. As he watched the water drip from his chin, he slammed his fist onto the sink. He clenched his jab tightly, trying to keep the tears at bay. They came anyway. He slowly sunk to the floor, curling himself against the wall, burying his face into his knees. It had been a long time since he'd cried, a long time since he was allowed to cry, and he felt himself sobbing.

Spot walked into the lodging house main room and stopped in his tracks. He heard a noise coming from the bathroom. He walked over to the door and his face fell when he saw the younger boy sitting on the bathroom floor, crying his eyes out. For some reason Spot's heart went out to the kid. He wasn't usually one to feel much sympathy for anyone else, his own life having been such a train wreck, but for some reason this boy, Anthony, pulled at him. He knelt down next to Anthony and reached a hand out to place it on the boy's arm. "Hey." He spoke quietly, as not to startle the boy, but Anthony jumped anyway. He quickly brushed a hand across his face, embarrassed. Spot didn't laugh, didn't smile. He just put his hand where Anthony could see it and gently sat down next to him. "Whatever happened, it's gonna be okay. I promise."

The young boy only nodded, looking at Spot with sad eyes. He noticed now that Spot was blond, a feature he couldn't make out in the darkness of the night before. His eyes weren't hard and cold like he'd expected, but soft and caring. "I'm sorry, Spot." He managed.

"Don't be." Spot told him. "We all have a past." Anthony looked down at the floor. "But what do you say to getting yourself a future?"

Anthony looked up at Spot, his eyes now dry, though tear tracks still trailed through dirt on his face. "What do you mean?"

Spot smiled. "We need to get you a nickname."


	13. Chapter 13

Racetrack felt himself being shaken awake, blinking into the sunlight as he looked up at the sky. It took him a moment to pull his surroundings into view and understand that he was trying to do so from his back. "Can ya sit?" He heard a voice coming at him from a distance, or like his ears were stuffed with cotton. As he sat, he shook his head to clear it, which only made him dizzy, causing him to tilt backwards again, but this time he didn't make it all the way to the ground. He took a few deep breaths and realized Spot was sitting behind him, propping him up, Race's back pressed to Spot's chest. He felt his head lean back into Spot's shoulder, his mind unable to focus, his vision blurry. He closed his eyes a moment, tried to concentrate on his breathing. "Spot." His voice sounded funny, almost slurred, and it made his heart race. What was the matter with him?

"It's okay, Race, just relax." Spot brushed a hand through Race's hair, sweeping it back from his forehead. Racetrack concentrated on his breathing, inhaling and exhaling slowly, until his heart once again felt like it wasn't going to make an appearance on the outside of his body. He felt a bit better since first opening his eyes, the world around him no long swimming, though he felt his body beginning to shake. Great. Crying, screaming, shaking, and possibly passing out in the middle of the street. Spot was never going to let him live this down. He slowly tried to sit himself more upright, hoping to get to his feet. He felt Spot's eyes on him, his hands gripping both his upper arm and Race's back in order to keep the smaller boy steady. Together, they managed to carefully get Racetrack to his feet; Spot's arm now wrapped around Race's waist, the blond boy watching his friend with fierce intensity. Racetrack felt his head beginning to throb with all the movement and fought the urge to sit back down. He was grateful Spot was holding onto him, practically holding him up, if he were honest. He knew if Spot let go, he'd be right back where he started. He tried to take a look around, checking to see if a crowd had gathered; who was he kidding, no one was going to pay one ounce of attention to a street kid. He felt a sharp wave of nausea overtake him and tried to stem the feeling by taking deep breaths in through his nose. After a few moments, he knew it wasn't working. "Spot." He managed, "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Alright. I got'cha." Spot helped Race to his knees, staying by his side, while he emptied his stomach of everything he'd eaten that morning. Spot rubbed Race's back, keeping him steady, so he didn't topple over. Race was shaking visibly now, his body overrunning his brain, his will not strong enough to stop the fierce reaction his body was having. Why did he always have to crumble in Spot's presence? It made him look weak, young, and he once again felt the heat of embarrassment creep up his neck. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked away. "Sorry." He mumbled.

Spot kept his grip on Race's waist, once again reaching up to brush the younger boy's hair from his eyes, replacing his cap in the hopes of restoring some of the boy's dignity. "Don't worry about it." He told him, helping Racetrack to his feet once more. Spot gave Race a lopsided smile, and Race felt his eyes fill with tears. "Shit." He muttered, wiping at his eyes. "What happened Spot? What's wrong with me? Did I pass out or something?"

"Yeah, I'd say so." Spot didn't let go of Race, the two of them making their way to a nearby bench. Once they were settled, Spot sat as close to Racetrack as he could, helping keep him propped up along with the bench. "We were just talking and I looked away for a second. When I looked back you were on the ground. Sorry I didn't catch you in time. I didn't think it was going to happen a second time."

"Sorry about that." Race looked down at his hands. "I guess I can't get last night out of my mind. I thought I was done being afraid, but I feel really awful. I slept great for the first time in months, I ate well. But I get here and my heart starts racing and I'm all dizzy. I can't stop thinking about it now, like every step I take I'm being watched. It all just came back out of nowhere."

They were silent for a moment, Spot watching his friend, Race still staring at the ground. "Race I know you're scared, you've got to be. But I think there is more to it than that."

Racetrack looked up, his hands clasped in front of him, confusion written on his face. "What do you mean?"

"You feel dizzy, nauseated?" Race nodded. "Hot? Sweaty?" Again, Race nodded. "Race, I don't think this is just fear." Spot looked his best friend in the eyes, a look of concern mirrored back at him. "I think you've been poisoned."


	14. Chapter 14

W-What?" Racetrack stammered. "How? By who? I don't understand-" He was tripping over all the words trying to escape his mouth at once, both from shock and symptoms from the supposed poisoning. He felt dizzy, his heart speeding up from fear. He put his head in his hands, felling his eyes well up again, trying to keep at least some part of himself under control.

"I'm not sure." Spot told him, his eyes narrowing in confusion. "This shouldn't have happened." Race lifted his head to look at his friend. Spot took off his cap, smoothing his blond hair back, before replacing it again. None of this should be happening. He closed his eyes, visions of the night before bouncing around in his mind. He had stopped all of this, or so he had thought.

The night seemed darker here, as if the entire world had gone into a black hole. The lack of streetlights should have made him nervous but it didn't; he could hide better in the darkness. Laughter trickled out onto the street from the dimly lit building as the door opened and two men walked out. They clapped another man on the back as they left, allowing Spot to see that someone was clearly staying in the house (more of a hut really). The two men drunkenly lumbered off into the night, their loud voices carrying for quite awhile. Spot waited until he couldn't hear them anymore and crept up to one of the windows, peering inside. He smiled to himself as he watched the lone inhabitant settle himself into a chair, a bottle of liquor hanging idly from his fingers.

Spot waited for what seemed like hours, his legs becoming stiff from standing still for so long. He sat himself below the window, trying to blend in as much as he could, listening for any sounds that would help or hurt him. He was just about to nod off, when a clanking sound startled him from his near slumber. He shot to his feet, checking his surroundings before peeking in the window once again. The man inside had fallen asleep, the bottle in his hand having dropped to the ground, spilling fizzy liquid over the cold hardwood floor. Spot looked around the small house, at its sparse furnishings, wondering if anything in there could be useful. Walking to the front door, he tested the handle; unlocked. Spot opened the door as quietly as he could, slowly creeping into the room. He left the door cracked in case he needed to make a quick exit. He quickly surveyed the area more thoroughly, looking at anything that might be of use. There was a table, a couple chairs, and a kitchen area, with another room off to the left that Spot assumed must be a bedroom and bathroom. To his right was the slumbering jackass in an overstuffed chair, a large rug, and a wood burning stove. A wood burning stove, Spot thought, I could work with.

He kept his footsteps light and slow, moving stealthily around the man, his snores almost echoing throughout the house. Spot maneuvered around the back of the stove, and crouching, opened the flue with one hand, blindly, keeping his eyes on the man in the chair. He heard the flames jump in the stove, the crackling and popping becoming more of a roar, the heat already making him uncomfortable. He wiped sweat from his brow, checking the man wasn't waking up; he figured he wouldn't if he were passed out from a night of drinking, surely celebrating.

Satisfied, he opened the small door in the front of the black cauldron-like oven, filling the room with more heat, flames licking the edges of the open door, embers bouncing off the floor. Spot smiled slightly as he got to his feet, making his way back to the front door and out into the night. The cool air almost bit at his skin, the sweat from being so close to the fire having soaked through most of his clothing. He shut the door gently, wiping his brow and brushing a hand through his hair as he looked around the outside of the house. He had only seen it from the right side, aside from going through the door, and his mind raced as he searched the front yard. A large pile of wood stood to his left, most likely used in the stove, and he quickly went to it, knowing he probably didn't have much time. He carried as much as he could and placed it carefully in front of the one door to the modest lodgings, making four trips until he was satisfied with the outcome.

The door safely barricaded, Spot make his way to one of the trees in the front of the house and hid behind its thick trunk, sure he couldn't be spotted in the darkness of the night. He knew it wouldn't be long; with the open flue and the door to the wood stove letting in oxygen, plus the entire place seemingly made of wood of some kind, the entire thing would be aflame before he knew it. And the best part? That son of a bitch would be trapped inside, too drunk to find a way out. And sure enough, Spot didn't have to wait long; the flames had caught something (maybe the floor) and in only a few moments, he could see the house aglow with fire, hear the screams coming from inside. It would burn quickly, he thought, perhaps too quickly. "Burn in Hell." He said through gritted teeth. Spot then turned and ran, back the way he came, taking pride in knowing Race's father wouldn't be able to ever hurt Race again.


	15. Chapter 15

Spot half dragged, half carried Race back to the Lodging House. He wanted to take him to Brooklyn where he could keep a direct eye on him, but he didn't think Racetrack was in any condition to be walking that far. The younger boy alternated between throwing up and being dizzy, his mind zoning in and out, his vision blurring and making it hard to concentrate. His head throbbed with every pitiful step and he found himself leaning into Spot.

They walked into the Lodge and Spot helped Race sit down on his bunk; Race placing his head in his hands. They hadn't spoken since Spot told Racetrack he may have been poisoned, and Spot finally opened up about his feelings on the topic. "Race, when I said I thought you'd been poisoned I wasn't kidding. Someone did this to you."

Racetrack lifted his head slowly, mindful of his head. He looked at Spot, heart beginning to speed up. "You think it was my dad?"

"Not exactly." Spot admitted. "I saw a guy once who had been poisoned and he had all the symptoms you have. He must have gotten a stronger dose or something though." He didn't make it, Spot thought, though he didn't say this out loud.

"I think I'm gonna lie down for a bit." Race told him, shrugging off his satchel and letting it drop to the floor, the papers spilling out over the floor. It only took a few moments before Race was sound asleep. Spot sat on the bed next to his friend and sighed. He knew it couldn't have been Race's father, but then who was it? He looked at the fitful sleep of the younger boy, sweat beading on his forehead that Spot hoped was the poison leaving his body. He didn't know how to make it better, how to fix the problem in front of him, and for the first time in a very long time, Spot was scared.

He reached up and brushed a hand across Race's forehead, trying to smooth the hair that had sprung out of its typical sleek mold. Race grimaced under the touch and Spot withdrew his hand. He couldn't help but wonder if his actions had anything to do with the recent actions, but he didn't see how. Surely no one had seen him, no one had known it was him who had set that fire, and if they knew how could they know about Racetrack? Hell, he wasn't sure if the body had even been found. It was possible it had simple burned up. But Spot knew that at some point those men who had been with him would want to see him again and when they couldn't find anything but ash, they'd be angry. And suspicious. But Spot was good at what he did. They wouldn't trace it to him. He looked at Race, who was now snoring slightly. Spot felt his lips twitch, a smile almost forming, but in an instant it was gone. He sighed. It had to be those men, or at least one of them. But why? And how?

"I'll get answers one way or another, Race." He ran a hand through his blond locks before replacing his cap. "Something is very wrong here. And I'm gonna figure out exactly what that is." Spot made his way from the Lodging House and found Jack Kelly. After telling Jack what had happened that day and gathering the promise from Jack that he'd look after Race, Spot set out to do some damage control. As he'd said before, no one messes with family.


	16. Chapter 16

The rain poured down outside and thunder shook the windows of the tiny cabin as the three men sat at the small round table, a beer settled in front of each of them. "Hard work in this rain." One of them said, fingering the scruff that was starting to sprout on his chin. Their leader demanded them be clean-shaven at all times; they wanted to look respectable, not like bums off the street.

"Should be easier. No one out and about to get in your way." Their leader said, taking a long swallow of his drink.

"I suppose Boss, but what about others wondering why we're the ones out in that weather?" The youngest of the group, a short, yet burly man, wanted to know. He was always good at his job, but still unreasonably squeamish about getting caught, though that had yet to happen in the six years he'd worked for Michael Higgins.

"The sooner you realize no one has it out for you the better, Louis." Michael Higgins informed him. "And I'm sure you're clever enough to come up with a reason for being out in the rain, don't you think?"

The two men nodded. They had never been questioned of their whereabouts, and the rain wasn't as much of a bother as they liked to assume. It wasn't as if the streets were barren, just more empty than normal. It made them more easily seen. Not that it mattered much, since the only ones out were those headed to work or the damn newsboys. Michael scoffed as the thought came into his head. The newsies. His son. He didn't talk about him much, didn't even think about him much since he ran off a few years ago if he was honest. But he kept an eye on him all the same; not for safety reasons, no, but for his own benefit. He liked to know where his enemies were at all times. He considered his own child his enemy; once he decided to cross that line, the incredibly stupid choice he made, that boy was no longer his concern. Now he only kept an eye out here and there. The men who worked under him knew about Anthony, or Racetrack as he was now called, but none of them dared to bring him up, which was why they were shocked to hear the next words out of their leader's mouth. "I've been thinking about Anthony lately."

The men glanced at one another, not quite sure what to say or do next. Louis cleared his throat, John, the third in their party, sniffed. "Oh don't come undone." Michael snapped. "I just mean I've seen that little shit hanging around Spot Conlon more than usual lately." He'd been keenly aware of how much time his son (though it almost sickened him to call the kid that) had been spending with the Brooklyn boy for the past couple of weeks. He felt something was off about it. He had his own eyes and ears just as much as the kid seemed to, and his name had come up a few times. He wasn't sure why he was concerned; it wasn't like a sixteen year old could harm him, but it did make him slightly annoyed. "I don't like it. That kid is more trouble than he's worth. I wouldn't doubt them trying to pull a fast one."

"You don't think a couple of kids would do us any harm, do you?" Louis asked cautiously. He wasn't about to challenge Michael Higgins' confidence. "You, uh, don't think he's a threat do you?"

"Not exactly, Lou." Michael replied, taking a pull of his beer, rolling the bottle in his hands. "But I don't need interference if it's not necessary. We are very good at what we do in part because many do not know what we do. Anthony does. In great detail no less. I wouldn't be surprised if he was biding his time to do something stupid, surely because he doesn't like the way I chose to handle things with him. He thinks he's too good for all of this." The man chuckled. "Funny how he ran from something that he could have made something of himself from to play on the streets."

"What do you want us to do about it, Boss?" John asked, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. John had been with Michael for nearly a decade and a half, longer than most of the men he did business with, and was fairly comfortable questioning his leader.

"Nothing. I'm going to pay my son a little visit tomorrow." He smiled to himself, thinking about the 'conversation' he was planning to have with Anthony the next day. He wasn't going to threaten him, necessarily, just make sure he understood his place, maybe even ask him to join the group again, give him a second chance, something he wouldn't do for anyone else. "Just wanted to make sure you two knew about it, you know, in case things take a bad turn."

"What do you mean Boss?" Louis asked, sitting up and leaning his arms on the table. "Like you want us to cover something up for you?"

Michael shook his head. "No Lou, nothing like that." He threw back the last of his beer and went to the fridge to get another. "Just in case something happens on my end."

"Your end?" John sat up straight. He had never heard Michael speak like this, almost as if he were nervous.

"Yes, well that little pain in the ass Spot he hangs around has quite the reputation. He seems very protective of Anthony and I wouldn't put it past him to do some damage, despite my own prowess. Surely he knows of our activities by now and I would prefer not to be found out. I normally put a stop to any and all issues that occur, and my own kid is not immune. I don't just lay people out for no reason, but my suspicions have become heightened." He took a seat back at the table. "I'm hoping a little threat will do it, get Anthony to come around, keep that Spot kid quiet. He used to be pretty decent about keeping his trap shut, but now I'm not so sure. So, on the off chance that kid is hanging around and tries to cause any trouble I can't deal with alone, I want you to take care of it."

"What exactly do you want us to do? Stand around? Hide out?" Louis asked.

"Nah, that's kid's stuff. I'm talking about after the fact. I can take on a couple of kids. But sometimes even we can get caught unawares. I'm not expecting much from some kids but just in case something happens to me, you can do the dirty work in my honor."

"You think a couple of street kids are going to get the better of you?" John asked, tossing the bottle of beer to the side. "Give me a break. What gives? Why are you acting like something is going to happen? You deal with big time criminals and you're concerned about a couple of sixteen year olds?"

Michael wasn't sure how to answer at first. He just had an uneasy feeling about this whole situation. "More like I can be traced. Someone has to know something right?"

"So I still don't get it. Why not just get rid of the problem?"

"Because I don't trust these kids and there are too many of them who may know even a little bit of what we do. I can't get rid of all of them. Big actions can have big consequences. So in order to protect myself and our society, you are to take care of business if necessary."

"But how would that make any difference if it's us or you?" Louis questioned.

"Well, Anthony only really knows about me. He knows I have 'guys' but not who. You're untraceable. I'm not. Besides, they will only want to hurt me, not you. I'M the one who Anthony thinks did wrong. So it's me who they will target. I'm pretty good at watching my back, but I have to sleep at some point. I don't want watch dogs either." He eyed both men, getting his point across. "But just in case, I want to be prepared. If something happens to me, you are to take matters into your own hands."

"And what exactly does that entail?" John asked, resting his arms on his knees and leaning forward, his face hard and cold.

"Get rid of my son. And his friend."


	17. Chapter 17

When Racetrack woke up, his head was pounding. It hurt to open his eyes, to take a breath, and sitting up seemed out of the question. It was the middle of the day so there was no one in the Lodging House but him, even Spot was gone. Had he said he was leaving? Race couldn't remember. Thinking seemed to take too much effort so he didn't try to figure it out. He closed his eyes again and slowly turned onto his stomach hoping to ease the nausea that was creeping up on him again. Surely there was nothing left in his stomach to get rid of. Eventually Race fell back to sleep, the exhaustion of the morning washing over him.

Across the room, Jack sat in a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He watched Race carefully, his arms crossed across his chest. Jack had sold his papes early that day and had decided to go to back to the Lodging House, see if any of the younger boys were there, taking a break, only to find it mostly empty. He didn't expect to see many, as it was still early, but he certainly hadn't expected to see Spot Conlon emerging through the door of the Manhattan Lodging House. Sure, he'd seen Spot around more often lately, mostly hanging around with Race, but he didn't think much of it until Spot pulled him aside and asked him to look after Racetrack. Jack listened to the story Spot told him, everything that had happened between Race and his father. Jack felt himself growing angry, but Spot assured him he would take care of it, had taken care of some of it already. Jack watched Race's jaw clench as he told him all of it, every horrible detail; at one point Jack was sure Spot was going to burst into tears, the anger so present and with no immediate outlet. But he only walked off towards Brooklyn. Jack then crept into the Lodging House not wanting to disturb Race. The boy had awakened once, seemingly still not well. He didn't seem to notice Jack in the corner and Jack didn't draw any attention to himself. He knew Race had been through enough and probably didn't want to be made to feel any weaker knowing Jack Kelly was babysitting. So Jack just sat there, watching and waiting for something to happen.

Spot walked the streets, passing Newsies trying to sell papes and men heading to lunch. It was typically a good time of day to sell, giving the working men a chance to get their minds off of their daily grind. Mornings were okay, but so many people were running late or in a hurry for one reason or another. Women bought more in the mornings. Fights (boxing) and the track also brought in more buyers. The boys were pretty good at finding spots that worked for them and sticking to that area. Spot hadn't sold papes in a few days. He had enough money to cover himself for another couple of days without having to worry, but being the King of Brooklyn, he wanted to check on his boys. He also needed a walk and to clear his head; get his mind on something other than the crap Race was dealing with. Someone was hurting Racetrack and Spot wasn't going to stand for that. How would anyone be able to poison him? And who? His father was dead, that he was sure of, so it couldn't be him. But what about those men who worked for his father? Surely one of them would be behind it. But why? Why would they hurt Race? Did they see Spot set the fire or were they just upset at the fact that Race didn't want to join them in their little games?

Spot had been around Race most of the time lately too so he didn't see when this could have happened. He kept walking, his footsteps keeping time with his thoughts. He repeated what he already knew over and over again. Father. Fire. Poison. Father. Fire...fire. The two men who had come out of the cabin before Spot went in. It's possible they could have seen him, but they were drunk and it was dark. How would they have known even if they had been within view of what happened? And if they did know, why didn't they come after Spot? He knew something was very off about this, but through his anger, he couldn't seem to figure it all out. He forced himself to slow down, his mind, his heart, his feet. He need to help Race. Poor Race who was alone (though there was Jack), dizzy, confused, sick-. There it was. Race had thrown up quite a bit earlier, way too much for someone who hadn't eaten anything that morning. He let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding and changed direction, his feet carrying him back towards Manhattan. He didn't stop until he reached Jacobi's, the one place the boys frequented when they could afford it.

He stood quietly, panting from his run. He peered in one of the windows, looking for clues. His eyes roamed the small shop, finally coming to a rest on the man behind the counter. He knew that face. It was one of the men who were leaving as he was approaching the cabin. Even in the darkness that night he knew he would recognize that man anywhere. Here in the light, he didn't look very menacing, but Spot was sure it was him. That man poisoned Race. He knew it. Anger bubbled inside Spot and he took a step forward to enter the shop, but a voice stopped him. "You're smarter than I gave you credit for." Spot stood still, the blade in his back keeping him from making any hasty movements. The voice moved closer, the man's stale breath on his ear. "Just not smart enough." The man snickered. "Spot."


	18. Chapter 18

Spot felt himself being shoved along the street, rather harshly. He wanted so badly to turn around and throttle the man behind him, but once again the knife prevented him from doing so. With a scowl on his face, he let the man lead him down an alleyway, hidden somewhat in shadow. Once out of sight, the man shoved Spot up against the wall, the knife now at his neck. "You think you're cute, don't you, you little worm?" The man growled. "Playing detective, I see. Best if you mind your own business."

Spot kept his face hard, trying to tame the burning anger bubbling up inside of him. Now face to face with this man, the one holding a blade to his throat, he knew who he was. It was the other person leaving the cabin that night, the third man in cahoots with Race's father and the bastard working at the deli. "I know who you are." He said through gritted teeth.

The man smiled, though it was anything but friendly. "And I know who you are." He turned his head and spat into the alley before returning his gaze to Spot. "Spot Conlon. Big shot in Brooklyn. Head of the street rats."

Spot let out a breath, willing himself to stay calm. He didn't much care if something happened to himself, but he couldn't leave Racetrack on his own, not with these creeps running the streets. "What do you care about a couple of kids?"

"You don't give yourself enough credit." The man sneered. "You're involved now, don't you see. And we don't like it when people get involved. It gets in the way of business."

"Go about your business then, leave me and Race out of it."

"Ah, but see, you and Anthony are our business, especially now." He moved the knife a bit so that it was resting on Spot's Adam's apple. "You got yourself involved and now you'll have to deal with the consequences of your actions."

"We can disappear, easy enough. Just leave Race alone."

"It ain't that simple, kid. We were given a direct order and we follow through on orders. Clearly, you don't think rules apply to you and we're gonna fix that problem."

Spot thought for a moment. Orders? Certainly Race's dad was the one giving orders, but he was dead. Right? Was this an order given beforehand? When Spot spoke, it was with caution, his tough exterior melting somewhat when it came to Race and trying to get back to him. "He hurt Race. A child. We have no problem staying away from you and you can go on and do whatever it is that you do. We won't say a word or get in your way." Spot knew he sounded pathetic, nearly begging like he was, but he didn't know what else to do. This guy seemed to know he had something to do with the fire and it was his best chance to get out of this situation.

The man only laughed, a choked, snorting sound. "Anthony wasn't worth shit. I wouldn't spit on the kid if he were on fire." His sneering smile returned. "Speaking of fire, you wouldn't know anything about a little cabin fire would you?"

Spot felt his eyes grow wide. The man knew, he knew and he was holding a knife to Spot's throat to prove it. "You think you're so smart, so tough. But you forgot one thing, Spotty." He leaned in closer so that his hot breath was on Spot's cheek, then raised the knife so that it glinted in a strip of sunlight. "We have eyes everywhere."

In that instant, a figure came out of nowhere, landing on the man's back, sending him tumbling to the ground, the knife clattering a few feet away. The figure curled in a heap on the street, the surprise guest having hit him hard over the head. Spot smiled at his accomplice. "What do you know. Looks like I do too."


	19. Chapter 19

"What can I say, Spotty?" The older boy smirked, throwing an arm around the shorter, blond boy. "I can work magic when I want to." Spot laughed. "What are we gonna do about him?" He jerked a thumb in the direction of the unconscious lump in the middle of the street.

"No need to worry, Jacky. I got an idea."

The two boys walked casually from the alley and back towards the main streets, Spot anxious to get back to Racetrack. "How was he when you left?" Spot asked after Jack had explained how he ended up finding and saving Spot back in the alleyway.

"Not awful. He kept asking for you. He was kinda out of it, trying to sit up and lying back down again. But he wasn't puking no more." Jack had been getting concerned after Spot had been gone a while, expecting him to come back and at least check on Race. When that didn't happen, he made sure Race was good enough to lie there on his own for a bit, and made his way out the door, looking for the Newsie. Jack figured there was trouble, Spot not one to up and leave, at least not without giving orders first. So he stuck to the side streets and the alleyways, creeping among the shadows. When he heard the voices, that of the growling older man and the other one he was sure belonged to Spot, he climbed the fire escape on a nearby building and prepared to make his move. Luckily, the building wasn't very high; all buildings above two stories required fire escapes ever since that fire a few years ago killed three families who had no way out of the building.

Spot nodded, wanting to go back to the alley and finish the guy off. Spot Conlon was a lot of things, but he never though 'murderer' would be on that list. After killing Races's dad, he was itching to eliminate everything else that wanted to hurt his friend. Spot had been on his own for a long time; his family wasn't something he thought about much anymore. His father was gone, as was his mother, but while they were around, none of them ever hit Spot. He didn't understand why Race's own father felt the need to hurt his only son. He thought he had gotten rid of the problem, but there were still people out there wanting to hurt Race, and Spot too it seemed. "Let's go check on Race and then I have a few things to take care of."

"Spot." Jack put a hand on Spot's shoulder, stopping him mid-stride. "You almost just got yourself killed. I think you should just let this go. We can all keep an eye on Spot—"

Anger festering, Spot shrugged Jack off. "I didn't ask for your help, Kelly. And you can go to hell. All the shit you do and here you are lecturing me?" Spot shook his head and began walking again. Jack grabbed Spot's arm, trying to reason with him again, but Spot shook him off. "Get lost, Jack!"

Spot stormed his way back to the Lodging House, his heart hammering in his chest, blood boiling. His chest was heaving with fury as he reached the Logding House, trying to find an outlet for his pent up anger. He stopped outside the door, taking deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. When he stepped inside, he looked at the bed where he left Race. He crept closer, trying to be quiet, as not to wake his friend. As he inched towards the bed, he noticed Race's form, curled on his side, was shaking. At first he thought it was the poison leaving Race's body, but as he sat down on the bed, he heard the distinct sound of sniffling. His heart sank. Race must be beside himself, scared something else was going to happen. And Spot had left him alone, well, with Jack. Jack. Spot clenched his teeth. He must not think about Jack.

He placed a hand gently on Race's back, causing the smaller boy to startle. "Hey." Spot said softly. "It's just me. It's Spot." He brushed a hand through Race's messy hair and Race let out a stifled sob. "How are you feeling?"

Race covered his face with one hand and began sobbing with a renewed terror. Spot knelt down next to him, trying to gather Race in his arms, the dark haired boy's body nearly convulsing with fear. "God, Race, what happened? Did something happen?"

Race pulled his other hand from where it lay under the threadbare blanket covering nearly all of him. In it was a piece of paper. Keeping one arm around the shaking Racetrack, Spot took the note from his friend. "Oh, God." Spot breathed, his eyes wide. Still clutching the note in his hand, Spot wrapped both arms tightly around Race, trying desperately to stem the hurt that refused to leave, as his mind tried to wrap itself around what he'd just read.


	20. Chapter 20

Racetrack lifted his head at the sound of footsteps echoing throughout the room. His head throbbed with the worst headache of his life and opening his eyes was excruciating. He thought at one point he'd seen Jack sitting in the corner, but he couldn't be sure. He peered carefully around the room, taking in his surroundings. He figured if it were one of the boys, they thought he was asleep and were trying to be quiet. But something felt off and he couldn't quite place it. It wasn't until a hand clamped down over his mouth, though, that he felt scared. He recognized that smell, the stench of body odor mixed with cigars and booze. But only after he'd finished a job. The man spoke then, hissing into Race's ear. "I'm going to move my hand and if you utter one single word, I'll gut you." Race nodded and the man removed his large hand from Race's mouth.

"Lou." He breathed. He didn't know what to think. What was Lou doing here? Was his father now sending out these men to deal with his own son?

"I'm touched you remembered my name, Anthony. 'Specially since I wasn't around long before you took off." He smiled to show surprisingly clean teeth, probably to keep up with 'business'. "Been makin' friends though I see."

"I didn't do anything wrong, Lou." Race wanted to be tough, tried his hardest to be tough, but his body was betraying him, weak from whatever he had ingested.

"I don't know that I agree with that, Anthony." He snarled. Racetrack wondered if he was carrying a weapon of some sort. Lou was a good talker, though. He might not need anything. He sat on the bed next to Race, causing the boy to prop himself up on his elbows and slide back a bit on the mattress. Race didn't like being this close to Lou, didn't like the vibe he was giving off. There was a reason he was here and most likely it wasn't something favorable.

"What are you talking about? And where's my dad? Why did he send you here instead?" Race felt his body begin to shake, both with fear and with the struggle it was taking to keep himself upright. Surely the poison was gone by now, he thought, maybe this is what your body felt like after you regurgitated your entire intestinal tract.

"Don't play dumb with me, Anthony." Race didn't like his tone, that patronizingly sarcastic sound, covered up by just a hint of sweetness. "We both know what you did."

Race was especially confused now, not sure what Lou was getting at. His face must have shown it because it was Lou who spoke again. "I know you killed your father."

Race's eyes nearly bulged from his head. "What are you talking about? He's the one who sent you here!" Race couldn't tell if he was yelling or not, but he kind of hoped he was. "Right?" He pressed when Lou didn't respond.

"You really don't know do you?" Lou sneered, a small smile playing at his lips. "Well, I'm honored to be the one to tell you the news. Your daddy's dead, kid. Burned alive in his own home."

"What—" Race couldn't seem to form sentences, his thinking becoming more and more foggy. "But I just saw him."

"Don't tell me you're all sad and concerned over all of this, when we both know you're not." Lou told him.

"I guess I'm more confused then anything."

"Well, let me clear it up for you. Your dad's home was lit on fire and he was locked inside while it consumed the entire place. Damn police said it was the flue on the stove that caused the problem. But I think we both know that's not true."

"I had nothing to do it."

"Oh, I see that now. But I also know who did."

"Who?" Race countered.

"Your pal Spot Conlon." Lou spat, though his voice was quiet for how harshly he spoke.

"Spot?" Race felt his headache spread to his eyes. He wanted to tell Lou he was wrong, that Spot wouldn't do that. But Race knew he was telling the truth. Spot wanted to get revenge and he didn't care how. Spot had traded his own safety for Race's. Racetrack's breathing sped up and he clenched his jaw to keep from letting his emotions get the better of him. He knew Spot wasn't in the room with him, but he had assumed he went to get something to eat or back to Brooklyn to pull rank. Now he wasn't so sure.

Lou nodded with satisfaction. "I was given orders and I follow through on orders." He handed Race a slip of paper, folded in half, but Race's hands were trembling too much he couldn't open it. "I don't take what happened lightly and after what your little friend did to mine, I owe it to him to reciprocate." He stood, patting Race on the shoulder. "Take care, Anthony." He nodded at the note. "Thought you might like to say goodbye." And he was gone as though he had never been there, the only trace of him the note crushed in Race's left hand.

Racetrack lay back down on the mattress, curling in on himself. He wanted to go look for Spot, but there was no way he'd get to him in time if something bad had happened. He fought with himself, wanting to warm Spot, or help him in some way, and wanting to stay put, knowing that's what Spot would want. He felt the first tears prick his eyes and brushed angrily at them, not wanting to let Lou cause this pain. Now that Race thought about it, he was probably the one who poisoned him in the first place, though he couldn't imagine how or when.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then shakily opened the now crumpled piece of paper that Lou had pressed into his hand. A strangled sound came out of his throat when he saw what was written there, tears forcing their way from his eyes and down his cheeks, soaking the mattress as he pulled the blanket around himself.

He didn't know how long it had been before he heard soft footsteps a second time. But this time he didn't care if Lou was back, let the man kill him, it was all his fault anyway. He tried to keep himself as quiet as he could manage, yet still jumped when he felt a hand touch his back. When Spot spoke he covered his face and began to sob. With fear, relief, something else, he didn't know. When Spot knelt before him he'd wanted to throw his arms around him, feel his friend alive and breathing before him. But he didn't. He wasn't sure he deserved it. But Spot wrapped his arms around Race instead and Race felt himself melting against his friend, the anguish pouring out of him. Spot asked what was wrong, and Race only handed him the note, not trusting his voice. He didn't have to watch Spot open it and read it, he knew what it said. On it was a list of names, all friends of his, fellow Newsies. Spot's was at the top and the next one down was Crutchie's. Both had harsh red lines through them. They were meant to be first. Lou was planning to pick off everyone important to him, one by one.

Spot held Race as tightly as he could. He didn't know what to think about what was written on that piece of paper. His name was at the top, and that other guy had clearly tried to kill him. If he had succeeded, or the other man who gave the note to Race thought he had succeeded, it meant they were going to go after Crutchie next, and unlike himself, Crutchie wouldn't be able to get away.


	21. Chapter 21

Racetrack waited until he was sure Spot had fallen asleep beside him, before stepping from the bed. His whole body ached, his mind felt like someone had used an eggbeater on it, and his heart couldn't take much more that it already had. He scribbled a quick note and left it where he knew Spot would find it, then stepped out into the dim light of the morning. He was afraid, but not as afraid as he thought he'd be. He had protested at first at Spot's suggestion of waiting until morning to find these guys and punish them, try to save Crutchie. But Spot assured him that they needed their sleep, their strength if they were going to take down these two grown men. Race worried they'd be too late and Crutchie would be dead, but Spot told him the men wouldn't do anything right away. Too many bodies all at once, and all that. Race didn't mention that the only body was his father's, that one crippled boy off the street probably wouldn't matter too much to anyone that mattered. Instead he kept his eyes shut until the exhaustion of the gesture itself made him sleep.

He knew he should be selling, knew Spot was way past that, and felt like today, something big was going to happen. He didn't know if he'd come out of it alive or even just half alive, but he was going to try to fight this. Everyone else around him was trying to keep him safe or kill him and now it was his turn to do both. He walked towards Crutchie's usual selling spot and when he found him holding a pape in the air, one hand on his crutch for support, he let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. "Crutchie." He said walking up to his friend. A wide smile spread across Crutchie's face. "Heya, Racetrack. Heard you was sick. Feeling better?"

"I don't think resting will help me with this Crutchie." He told him honestly. Crutchie's smile faded fast. "What do you mean?"

"It's a long story. But just promise me you'll watch your back."

Crutchie eyed him strangely. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?" He asked, not used to his friend being so dark.

"Yeah. It's just something I need you to do for me okay?"

"Yeah, okay, sure, Race."

Racetrack nodded and turned and walked back in the direction he came, leaving Crutchie staring after him. When he arrived back at the Lodging House, Spot was leaning against the doorframe watching him approach, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. "I got your note." He told Race, slightly pissed. "Should have woke me up."

"I just went to check on Crutchie and it wasn't necessary." Race told him, bumming a cigarette. "He's at his spot selling so at least we know he's okay for now. I told him to watch out for himself."

"So what now?" Spot asked, putting his cigarette out with the toe of his shoe. Race shrugged, leaning against the outer wall of the Lodging House. "I don't even know where to start. They came here and found us. My whole body feels awful, my head is killing me, I cant even think straight at the moment. How are we supposed to figure this out?"

"We will, don't worry. Go on in and rest for a bit. I can handle this for now."

"Spot, this is my problem, my fault. These men tried to kill you and are planning to go after Crutchie and everyone else on that list. How are the two of us even supposed to fix this anyway?"

"We aren't." Spot told him. When Racetrack looked at him strangely, Spot continued. "We'll get all the Newsies together. Just like the strike. Get everyone to help out. Brooklyn is in if I say they are, we can talk to Jack about Manhattan, the rest will follow. We've stuck together once before, we can do it again."

"But, Spot, what are we going to do?"

'We went up against the best there is, this will be a piece of cake, trust me." Spot gave Race a last look, before heading towards Brooklyn, ready to put together the best guys he could and fight the past with the future.


	22. Chapter 22

Racetrack waited until he was sure Spot had fallen asleep beside him, before stepping from the bed. His whole body ached, his mind felt like someone had used an eggbeater on it, and his heart couldn't take much more that it already had. He scribbled a quick note and left it where he knew Spot would find it, then stepped out into the dim light of the morning. He was afraid, but not as afraid as he thought he'd be. He had protested at first at Spot's suggestion of waiting until morning to find these guys and punish them, try to save Crutchie. But Spot assured him that they needed their sleep, their strength if they were going to take down these two grown men. Race worried they'd be too late and Crutchie would be dead, but Spot told him the men wouldn't do anything right away. Too many bodies all at once, and all that. Race didn't mention that the only body was his father's, that one crippled boy off the street probably wouldn't matter too much to anyone that mattered. Instead he kept his eyes shut until the exhaustion of the gesture itself made him sleep.

He knew he should be selling, knew Spot was way past that, and felt like today, something big was going to happen. He didn't know if he'd come out of it alive or even just half alive, but he was going to try to fight this. Everyone else around him was trying to keep him safe or kill him and now it was his turn to do both. He walked towards Crutchie's usual selling spot and when he found him holding a pape in the air, one hand on his crutch for support, he let out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. "Crutchie." He said walking up to his friend. A wide smile spread across Crutchie's face. "Heya, Racetrack. Heard you was sick. Feeling better?"

"I don't think resting will help me with this Crutchie." He told him honestly. Crutchie's smile faded fast. "What do you mean?"

"It's a long story. But just promise me you'll watch your back."

Crutchie eyed him strangely. "Are you sure you're feeling alright?" He asked, not used to his friend being so dark.

"Yeah. It's just something I need you to do for me okay?"

"Yeah, okay, sure, Race."

Racetrack nodded and turned and walked back in the direction he came, leaving Crutchie staring after him. When he arrived back at the Lodging House, Spot was leaning against the doorframe watching him approach, a cigarette pinched between his fingers. "I got your note." He told Race, slightly pissed. "Should have woke me up."

"I just went to check on Crutchie and it wasn't necessary." Race told him, bumming a cigarette. "He's at his spot selling so at least we know he's okay for now. I told him to watch out for himself."

"So what now?" Spot asked, putting his cigarette out with the toe of his shoe. Race shrugged, leaning against the outer wall of the Lodging House. "I don't even know where to start. They came here and found us. My whole body feels awful, my head is killing me, I cant even think straight at the moment. How are we supposed to figure this out?"

"We will, don't worry. Go on in and rest for a bit. I can handle this for now."

"Spot, this is my problem, my fault. These men tried to kill you and are planning to go after Crutchie and everyone else on that list. How are the two of us even supposed to fix this anyway?"

"We aren't." Spot told him. When Racetrack looked at him strangely, Spot continued. "We'll get all the Newsies together. Just like the strike. Get everyone to help out. Brooklyn is in if I say they are, we can talk to Jack about Manhattan, the rest will follow. We've stuck together once before, we can do it again."

"But, Spot, what are we going to do?"

'We went up against the best there is, this will be a piece of cake, trust me." Spot gave Race a last look, before heading towards Brooklyn, ready to put together the best guys he could and fight the past with the future.


	23. Chapter 23

The boys became still, not wanting their images to become their outsides. They seemed scared to even breathe too deeply, fear etched on each of their faces. Under the table, Spot slowly took Race's hand in his own, their fingers weaving together. Race swallowed hard, then stsrted to stand, but Spot gripped his hand more tightly. "Don't. Just get down when I tell you." Spot hissed through his teeth. Race did as He was told, fear getting the better of him. Spot stood, ready to face whatever was coming.

"Ah, so Spotty wants to play. Are you sure you wanna mess with us, kid?" Lou spat. "Remember, I'm the one with the nice shiny toy. " He waved the gun around a bit, sending a new wave of gasps through the crowd. Spot noticed the guy next to him, John, the one he met in the alley, had a few nice new bruises from Jack's surprise attack, and he didn't look too happy about it.

" Hey I've got no weapon, boys. None of us do. You really gonna off a few street kids? Get blood on your hands, dirty your names for killing innocent kids? " Spot cocked an eyebrow, his snark clear as day. He had no problem with these guys, wasn't afraid of them, God only knew he'd seen worse.

"Wise ass?" John stepped forward and Spot muttered for Race to get down. He wasn't sure if these guys were serious or very good bluffers. He knew he didn't want Race to get hurt. And while the Newsies were a tough group, they were no match for a gun.

Spot stood toe to toe with John, the older man's eyes boring into his own, both hard as marbles, cold as ice. "Aren't younoutta your territory, street rat?" John spat, saliva staining Spots cheek.

"My territory is wherever my feet stand. " Spot countered. Spot wanted to hit this guy so badly he had to clench his fists to keep from blackening his eye. He wanted to pound him into the ground for scaring his buddies, threatening them He had grown to like Manhattan over the past few months, as the brotherhood grew, and he would protect it just as he would his own borough.

"I don't think that's so wise." Lou stepped forward, pushing John to the side, the two of them towering over Spot. Lou nudged So it's shoulder with the gun, butSpot stood his ground. "You've certainly got a mouth on you." Spot nearly snipped, thinking of their nickname for Davey.

Meanwhile, Race felt like a coward, hiding under a table while his boyfriend (boyfriend?) Stood up to the bully. He looked around at the other boys, well their feet really, and could sense fear bubbling from them; some stood still as statues, others shuffled their feet nervously, but none made for the door. Race slowly and silently sank down to his stomach and slid out from under the bench that was used for seating at the table. He army crawled across the floor, checking here and there Spot was keeping the men occupied. He made his way behind the deli counter, his eyes searching for something that could help him and Spot, as well as the rest of the Newsies. A slow smile spread across his face as he caught a glimpse of a large butcher knife stowed between the space in the two cases of deli meat. He could hear Spot arguing with the two large men and his heart sped up. Thry could shoot at any time and it could be anyone. Race was kind of surprised they hadn't done so already. Maybe it was more like an animal; Thry liked to play with their food first. He carefully slid the large knife from its spot and immediately felt it's weight in his hand; it seemed to make it more real. He continued his belly-slither across the floor and peeked around the end of the case where he saw Spot chattin g away at the men, stepping over the bench and backing away from them. The men stood in place, their heads shaking at Spots rant. How long were they going to let this go on?

Racetrack wasmt about to find out. He sucked in a big gulp of air and drew himself to his feet, charging the two burly men, catching John in the back on his left side. He went down fast and hard, knocking into Lou as he did. Lou finger was poised on the trigger and the impact caused him to fire the gun as he was knocked forward. Race's eyes widened as he heard a grunt as a crash before him, the result of Spots body colliding with a few dishes on one of the tables.

From there it happened all at once; John's motionless body lying on the floor, Spot not moving, Race lunging towards a surprised Lou, stabbing him in the chest, the clatter of metal hitting the ground as the gun hit the floor. Race dropping the knife and rushing to Spots side, the blood spreading onto the floor and the shirt Spot was wearing. Race couldn't catch his breath, Spots name on his lips a choked sob. So many loud noises rang out all at once as Newsies scrambled in all directions, some through the doors, some checking on the thugs to make sure they were dead, others still, circling Spot and Race trying to figure out the situation involving one of the most feared Newsies in New York. And yet all race could hear was the beating of his own heart in his ears.


	24. Epilogue

Racetrack closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to will himself into a sleep that was bound to wake him within minutes of descending into Dreamland. He couldn't seem to even get himself to fall asleep this time around, his jaw clenching in frustration, his eyes burning with tears and exhaustion. Blowing out a breath, a sigh that he'd let go a million times, Race reopened his eyes to the same darkness that was there only moments before, the night stretching into what seemed like eternity.

He'd taken to sleeping on the rooftop for good, his nightmares breaking the Silence of the lodging-house almost nightly. He wasn't sure whether he was embarrassed or just angry that his mind wouldn't shut off. No matter what he tried, he couldn't seem to forget that night, the one that broke his heart with every inhale and choked him with every exhale. At first he tried to drink himself in the passing out, but even that didn't fight the demons that raced in his head; he mostly ended up puking his guts out and trying to sell with a wicked hangover the next day. He came to the conclusion that selling papes exhausted beat selling them exhausted and in pain. Although, that wasn't entirely true. He was still in pain. Just not the kind you could find a cure for at the end of a bottle.

Sometimes he'd go to the track, try to get his mind to focus on something other than the sound of a gunshot or the sight and smell of blood, because, God was there blood. But even the loud, senseless noise you can almost always find at the track, nothing could dull the senses enough to bring reality back to him. Well, almost nothing.

Race could feel hot tears prick his eyes and he swallowed thickly to chase them away. It had been six months, six long months of trying to forget, trying to resume a normal life, and yet it would always find a way to get to him. Nights were the worst. There was nothing to even begin to penetrate the sadness, the fact that everything that had happened was all his fault, no matter how much everyone tried to convince him otherwise, no matter how much he tried to convince himself. He would take lashings, the screaming and yelling, the beatings that left him half-dead and wishing he were, if only he could take back that night.

He bit his lip, his hands behind his head, back against the hard concrete of he rooftop. A shuffle to his left caused him to turn his head. Deep brown eyes stared back at him. He felt the hand on his face before he saw it and closed eyes once again, his breath caught in his throat. His world shifted, tilted back into place just slightly, and he felt a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. " Sleep, Race. I'm not going anywhere." Spots lopsided grin went unnoticed in the dark, as Racetrack finally felt himself drifting off. The First Act was a twisted mess of Lies fear and pain, but in that moment, just before you fell asleep, Race just knew that the second act would be different. With him and spot facing the world together, the darkness would now only be in his head, and maybe, just maybe, together, it would fall silent too.


End file.
